


Very Platonic and Extremely Casual

by Essie_Cat



Series: Albus and Scorpius are 'Very Platonic' [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Awkward Scorpius, Body Image, Chubby Albus, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Oblivious Albus Severus Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25108240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essie_Cat/pseuds/Essie_Cat
Summary: Albus and Scorpius are socially awkward twentysomethings. They go on a series of things that are definitelynotdates, no matter what Molly might think. Misunderstandings ensue.(Or, Albus is chubby and assumes Scorpius is out of his league, but Scorpius thinks he’s brilliant.)
Relationships: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Series: Albus and Scorpius are 'Very Platonic' [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858006
Comments: 26
Kudos: 228





	1. Diagon Alley

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for stopping by. Just FYI there are some body image issues and a bit of fat-shaming in here - this is intended as a body-positive fic overall, but Albus has some insecurities and isn’t always super kind to himself, so it’ll take us a while to get there.
> 
> Also, a disclaimer: I may be borrowing from JKR’s universe, but that doesn’t mean I support any of the opinions she’s currently spewing around the internet. Trans men are men and trans women are women, end of story <3

When Albus sees his old Gobstones nemesis for the first time since leaving Hogwarts, Scorpius is holding a pygmy puff while the acrid smell of smoke wafts through the air of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. 

It’s fair to say he looks more than a little baffled at the turn of events.

‘Malfoy?’ Albus says cautiously, glancing down at the pygmy puff, a little concerned about the burning smell.

‘Hel – oh, Potter!’ Scorpius looks surprised, then relieved, then panic floods his expression as the pygmy puff squirms in his grip. 

‘Hold it in one hand and stroke its head,’ Albus advises. ‘They don’t like feeling constricted.’

Scorpius loosens his grip on the creature, which immediately makes a mockery of Albus’s wisdom and attempts to make a bid for freedom. Albus and Scorpius both scramble to catch it. It somehow ends up on Scorpius’s shoulder, trying to wriggle into the collar of his cloak. Scorpius looks panic-stricken. Albus steps in, extracts the creature, gives it a stern look, then sets it on his own shoulder, where it seems content to curl up and stay still.

‘Thanks,’ Scorpius says.

‘Is it yours?’ Albus asks, amused and bemused in equal measure by whatever is going on here.

‘No. Very much not. I was just –’

‘Ah, there you are,’ comes a voice from behind a stack of fanged frisbees, and Albus’s Uncle Ron emerges, patting a garish orange powder from the front of his robes, his wand stuck behind his ear. He looks at Scorpius and the lack of a pygmy puff, then seems to notice Albus. ‘Hello, nephew of mine.’

‘Everything all right?’ Albus asks reasonably.

‘Small fire,’ Ron says. ‘Completely under control. Don’t tell George. Looks like you’ve got presents for me.’

‘One pygmy puff,’ Albus says, handing it over. ‘And one mystery item that Mum asked me to drop off.’ He hands over the parcel Ginny had given him that morning, after he’d made the mistake of mentioning he was popping to Diagon Alley for some shopping. 

‘Sorry for throwing live animals at you,’ Ron says to Scorpius, who still looks bewildered but politely waves away his apologies. ‘You can have twenty percent off, if you buy anything.’ 

He turns to Albus, preparing to say something, but then a bell chimes from somewhere in the shop, and he makes an apologetic face and disappears amongst the shelves, the pygmy puff swaying on his shoulder as he goes. 

Scorpius watches him go, looking slightly dazed. Albus takes the opportunity to stare at Scorpius without making it obvious. He remembers him well enough from their Hogwarts days – it would probably be a stretch to say that they’d been friends, but they’d been in Gobstones club together, so they’d hung out, and they’d both taken Ancient Runes at NEWT, which had been a pretty small class. But mostly Albus had spent time with his fellow Slytherins and Scorpius with the Ravenclaws.

He doesn’t remember Scorpius being so fucking _pretty_ , though. 

Okay, maybe pretty is the wrong word. Scorpius is, after all, a comfortable six feet tall with noticeably broad shoulders and a criminally sharp jawline. But there’s something soft about his grey eyes and their long, pale lashes, something delicate about his pink lips, currently curled in a smile. His pale cheeks are flushed, either from the chill of the January air outside or the warmth of the shop, and – goddamn it – it’s adorable.

‘So,’ Albus says, trying to pull himself together and stop staring and start behaving like a normal human being. ‘Um. Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Just buying a present for my cousin,’ Scorpius says. ‘Or, trying to. She’s eight. I don’t know anything about eight-year-olds. I think she likes, er, hippogriffs? And … purple?’

‘If you want to make her parents hate you, there’s a whole section of loud, explosive things over this way,’ Albus suggests. 

Scorpius looks rather helpless while Albus gives him a rundown of the surrounding shelves, covered in brightly coloured boxes and a myriad of products children would love and their parents would loathe. It’s very endearing – though Albus is fairly sure he would find anything about Scorpius endearing at this point – so he pulls out his best salesperson spiel and is immensely grateful for all the summer holidays he spent helping out in this place growing up.

‘You’re a lifesaver,’ Scorpius says, holding a screaming yo-yo in one hand and a Bubble Blaster 5000 in the other, weighing up his options. 

‘No problem. Happy to be of service.’

They look at each other, and smile awkwardly, and then there’s a pause where neither of them does anything. The pause gives Albus the opportunity to overthink, which his brain seizes with indecent enthusiasm.

It’s not often he bumps into people he hasn’t seen in six years – oh god, that’s how long it’s been, _six whole years_ since he graduated Hogwarts, though that’s an existential crisis for another time – and he knows the contrast between his eighteen-year-old self and his current self isn’t terribly flattering. 

He knows he’s put on a bit of weight since Hogwarts. Okay, quite a lot of weight. Enough that the first number on the scale has shuffled comfortably into a two rather than a one these days, enough that his belly pushes over his waistband to sit his lap, enough that his cousins don’t invite him to play Quidditch anymore at family get-togethers.

(Fuck, could he get on a broomstick these days? Maybe? It’s a while since he tried.) 

Actually, he’s quite relieved that Scorpius recognised him at all. There’s the weight, and he’s got a few days’ worth of dark stubble on his cheeks, which his teenage self would never have achieved, and he wears glasses now, which sometimes throws people off. 

(He’s uncomfortably aware that, under different circumstances, people would probably comment on how much the glasses make him look like his dad. But his dad is a slim guy, so they don’t – they very much don’t.)

And he’s all right with the weight thing, most days. At least, he tries not to focus on it too much. But bumping into an old classmate who has the gall to be _even more_ attractive than he was back then is a sure-fire way to set every one of Albus’s insecurities into overdrive. 

He’s so wrapped up in his muddle of self-conscious thoughts that he almost misses Scorpius asking, ‘D’you want to grab a drink, if you’re done here? I could do with something warm. It’d be nice to catch up?’

_Holy shit._

‘Er, yeah,’ Albus says quickly. ‘Yeah, sounds good.’

‘Great.’ Scorpius indicates the assortment of items in his arms, including the yo-yo and bubble machine. ‘I’ll just get these.’

‘Don’t let Ron overcharge you,’ Albus says. ‘Remember he promised you a discount for the suffering you endured on his watch.’

Scorpius snorts and heads over to the counter to pay.

Albus hovers by the door, attempting to stay out of sight, because if his uncle sees him leaving with Scorpius Malfoy, it’ll become a _whole thing_ and the entire family will know by dinnertime and Albus will have to painfully explain himself to every Potter-Granger-Weasley he sees in the next two weeks. Not that there’s anything to explain, of course, just two people-who-used-to-know-each-other-a-bit grabbing a drink together. 

(Oh god, Albus really wants there to be something to explain.)

When Scorpius has paid up, they have an overly polite discussion of where they should go for said drink, filled with ‘I don’t mind!’s and ‘No, honestly, you pick!’s, before Albus suggests a quirky place down Knockturn Alley, which Scorpius comments is very on-brand for a Slytherin and a Malfoy. 

It’s a cute place with eclectic artwork on the walls, a small piano in the corner, and a cat curled up on a stool by the fire. Scorpius orders a butterbeer, and Albus gets a pot of lapsang souchong, and they sit at a table by the window and watch shoppers scurry by. 

They’ve both removed their cloaks, hanging them on a peg by the door, which allows Albus to get a better look at Scorpius – and _holy hell_. He’s wearing a nice pair of robes that do little to disguise his broad shoulders, and Albus’s mind briefly attempts to construct what the rest of him might look like under there – strong arms, flat stomach, narrow waist – before he chastises himself for being an insufferable pervert. He determines to stop objectifying the poor guy who is, after all, just trying to drink his butterbeer and make pleasant conversation and doesn’t deserve to have Albus ogling him across the table. 

As for Albus himself, he’s suddenly painfully aware that his jeans are slightly too tight, his t-shirt slightly too small. He’s conscious of where his jeans dig in at his hips, leaving angry red marks, and where his t-shirt stretches over his belly. He wishes he’d worn robes, which – while not slimming, per se – would at least disguise the situation a little more effectively than his current outfit choice does. (Bloody hell, if he’d known he was going to bump into Scorpius Malfoy today, he would’ve put _considerably_ more effort into his appearance this morning.)

‘So.’ Scorpius spreads his hands, smiling his very charming smile. ‘What’ve you been up to since Hogwarts? Are you still terrible at Gobstones?’

Albus blusters in mock outrage. He gives a quick whistle-stop tour of his post-Hogwarts life, explaining that he moved up to York a couple of years ago with his cousin Molly, and trying to make his Ministry job in the Department of Magical Transportation sound slightly more interesting than it is.

For his part, Scorpius is living in London with a couple of his fellow Ravenclaws, Claude Zabini and Grace Fletcher, who Albus remembers from Gobstones club. He’s doing further study in History of Magic, with a focus on wandlore, and working in a coffee shop while writing his thesis. His eyes brighten when he talks about his research, though he’s vague when it comes to his plans for afterwards (‘Ministry? Gringotts? Post-grad study? Advanced cappuccino making? I’m sure my calling will find me eventually.’)

The whole thing is nice. Weirdly, easily nice. Albus is nervous, but that’s more of a personality trait than anything, just amplified by the fact that he isn’t accustomed to drinking tea across from highly attractive former acquaintances. Scorpius seems relaxed and chatty, flashing his charming smile at everything Albus says as though he’s the most interesting conversational partner anyone could hope for. Maybe he does this all the time, is constantly bumping into old classmates in random shops and inviting them out for drinks.

In the middle of reminiscing about their Ancient Runes lessons, Scorpius announces, ‘Fuck it, I’m getting cake.’ He looks expectantly at Albus. ‘Want anything?’

Albus panics. ‘Erm…’

The cakes at the counter look delicious, as he noted when they came in. He’d wanted cake then, and yes, he would absolutely still like some cake now. The question is whether or not he feels too self-conscious eating cake in public and in front of Scorpius. (Before he got fat – properly fat, rather than just his slightly pudgy teenage self – he hadn’t realised there were unspoken rules about eating in public, but there are, there are _definitely_ rules, and he’s hyper aware of them now.) 

He’s been indecisive too long, but Scorpius just waves a hand and says, ‘I’ll surprise you.’

He comes back to the table with a slice of carrot cake, sagging under the weight of its cream cheese frosting, and an enormous square of chocolate tiffin. The paranoid part of Albus’s brain wonders if this is some sort of trick. But he chooses the carrot cake, and Scorpius happily tucks into the tiffin, and refuses Albus’s attempts to pay him back for it.

‘You saved me from a pygmy puff, I owe you.’

Albus grins. ‘You probably weren’t in any real danger.’

Scorpius raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Probably. But you solved my shopping woes, too.’

‘Well, when you put it like that.’

‘It pretty much makes you my hero,’ Scorpius tells him seriously, the corners of his mouth twitching, and Albus’s heart just about topples out of his chest.

_Well, fuck._

*

Three days later, Albus is halfway through a plate of burnt lasagna when an owl raps on his window. 

(It’s moments like this, when twenty-four-year-old Albus has failed to cook a simple pasta dish, that his brain helpfully reminds him that his dad had saved the world multiple times over by the time he was seventeen.)

His eyes almost pop out of his skull when he realises the letter is from Scorpius. 

_Hi Albus. Are you free on Friday? Grace, Zabini and I are going to a Muggle bar so Zabini can practise his ‘I’m not a wizard’ routine before Grace tries introducing him to her Muggle friends._

_Might be fun. Will probably be embarrassing._

_Let me know if you fancy it._

_Scorpius (Malfoy)_

Albus wonders if hanging out in a Muggle bar with Scorpius Malfoy and his friends on Friday night might be the pinnacle of his existence.

This is turning out to be _quite_ a week.  



	2. Bar 34, Shoreditch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go on not-a-date to a Muggle bar. Albus realises half his clothes don’t fit. Scorpius’s friends are well-intentioned but embarrassing.

‘So you’re going for drinks. On Friday. With Scorpius Malfoy.’

Molly is sitting on the kitchen counter, chewing Drooble's Best Blowing Gum and observing Albus with a shrewd, affectionate expression he doesn’t want to try and translate.

Albus chops spring onions to add to his omelette. ‘That’s an accurate summary of the situation, yes.’

‘So this will be the second time you’ve met him for drinks this week,’ Molly continues. ‘After you saw him at Wheezes.’

Albus’s hopes that Uncle Ron hadn’t seen him leave the joke shop with Scorpius had, inevitably, come to nothing. He’d arrived home to a letter from Molly demanding that he tell her everything, because Rose had said that Ron had said that he and Scorpius looked _very friendly_. 

‘The first time was an accident,’ Albus says, eyeing the sizeable pile of grated cheese, wondering if it’s acceptable to add more.

‘Didn’t you have a crush on him at school? You were always very keen to go to Gobstones club.’

‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘I just really liked Gobstones. A noble sport. The game of champions.’

He’s been cagey when Molly has asked him about Scorpius, which he knows has only made her more suspicious. He has pointedly _not_ said just how interesting and funny and charming Scorpius was, how he made you feel like everything you said was of the utmost importance, or how much Albus is looking forward to spending more time with him. 

‘Look, why don’t you come along?’ he asks Molly, determined to prove to her that there's nothing to get excited about. ‘Grace and Zabini will be there too. You remember them from school, right? It’ll be fun. And we can stick together in case the three Ravenclaws gang up on us.’

Molly agrees easily enough. She works in Muggle relations at the Ministry, so a night in a Muggle bar should be a piece of cake for her. 

But even if Molly has convinced herself that this is a _thing_ , Albus, at least, is determined to keep his feet firmly in reality. Scorpius is just being nice. They’re just hanging out as friends, in a friendly way, with two of Scorpius’s other friends, in fact. 

All extremely, disappointingly, platonic.

*

Albus stares at the assortment of clothes spread out on his bed as if he’s never seen them before.

This doesn’t need to be complicated. One top, one pair of jeans. 

He has a couple of go-to outfits for things like this. Nothing fancy, but enough of a step up from his customary flannel-over-a-black-tee look that it feels like he’s made an effort.

He can’t help but notice, however, that a couple of things look a little _smaller_ than he remembers.

The first go-to shirt he picks up definitely doesn’t fit. It has buttons – always treacherous – and he sucks in his stomach to fasten it, but the buttons strain threateningly when he breathes out again. Even if he holds his stomach in all night – which is not a reasonable prospect – it’s still not a strong look for him.

The second go-to is a grey Henley which, to his mortification, firmly rides up every time he tries to pull it back down, leaving the lower roll of his soft, pale belly perfectly visible. He shimmies it back over his head and throws it down on the discard pile with the others.

_Shit._

He shouldn’t be so surprised. It is January, after all. Clearly he ate even more mince pies over Christmas than he’d thought.

_Shit shit shit._

‘This is fine,’ Albus says to the room at large, staring into his half-empty wardrobe as though it might issue a grovelling apology for its mutinous contents. ‘Absolutely fine. This is a _problem-free_ situation.’

He hasn’t even tried any jeans on yet. That’s sure to be its own separate nightmare.

Half an hour later, Albus ends up in a thin cable-knit jumper, dark green, which his grandma would probably tell him ‘brings out your eyes, dear’. It’s maybe a little on the snug side, but not noticeably too small. He’s got one of his many black t-shirts on underneath, which definitely fits _fine_ , though he’ll avoid taking his jumper off unless absolutely necessary. He’s pretty happy with his dark jeans, which he risked a quick engorgio charm on, and they’ve survived without looking misshapen, and they fasten easily enough under his belly.

He’s ready. It’s nothing he can’t handle. He’ll have a nice, totally casual evening with some old classmates. 

And then definitely go clothes shopping tomorrow.

*

Scorpius, Grace and Zabini live in a third storey flat in a little wizarding enclave of east London. When Albus steps out of their fireplace, he barely has time to blink before someone is squealing his name and throwing their arms around him in a hug.

The hugger isn’t, unfortunately, Scorpius, but a small, dark-haired person in corduroy overalls, a cropped t-shirt and purple Docs. ‘It’s been ages,’ Grace says, pulling out of the hug. ‘How’ve you been? You look great. We were so excited when Scorpius said you were coming. Doesn’t he look great, Scorpius?’

‘Let him _breathe_ ,’ Scorpius’s slightly strained voice comes from somewhere in the room.

Molly steps out of the fireplace shortly afterwards, looking rather dashing in a blue velvet dress that shows a lot of leg. She and Grace start complimenting each other on their choice of shoes, and Scorpius hands Albus a beer.

‘Hello, Al,’ he says, grinning. 

‘Hello, Scorpius,’ he grins back. 

‘Glad you could make it.’

‘Thanks for inviting me.’

‘Thanks for coming.’

Grace is staring at the two of them with an expression that might best be described as disbelief. Molly’s expressive eyebrows are raised.

While Scorpius chats to Molly about Puddlemere’s chances this season, Grace interrogates Albus about his job (‘Department of Magical Transportation, Scorpius said – so you’ve got, like, a Real Grown-Up Job? Good for you, Potter’). In return, he asks about her efforts to break into Muggle journalism. But she quickly takes the conversation in a different direction altogether. 

‘So, Albus – you’re single?’

‘Yup.’ He takes a swig of the beer and decidedly does not look at Scorpius.

‘And why is that?’ Grace inquires, with the air of a therapist pressing him to talk about his childhood.

‘Grace,’ Scorpius interjects. ‘Just because you and Zabini finally got your act together after pining over each other for _years_ , that doesn’t make you a relationship expert. Please ignore her, Albus.’

‘See, Scorpius is single because he gets shy and is terrible at putting himself out there,’ Grace says affectionately, as Scorpius groans. ‘Even though anyone in their right mind would want to date him.’

‘I’m sure they would,’ Molly chimes in.

‘Isn’t Zabini ready yet?’ Scorpius says, visibly pained. ‘I’m sure we should be leaving.’ 

As if on cue, Zabini appears in the doorway, tall and lean, casually handsome, despite his choice of a yellow, purple and green striped shirt. ‘What did I miss? Oh, hello Potter, Weasley. Long time no see. Are we torturing Malfoy?’ 

‘No,’ Scorpius insists, as Grace says, ‘Only partly.’

*

At the bar, Grace whisks Zabini away to get drinks. Molly joins them, probably under the impression that she’s doing Albus a favour by leaving him alone with Scorpius. 

Scorpius is giving off a sort of nervous excitement as he looks around the bar. He smiles as he meets Albus’s eye. Albus tries not to think about how nice his smile is. He also tries not to focus on his artfully tousled blond hair, his broad shoulders in that cute button-down shirt, the defined biceps that are clearly visible under the fabric, or his strong thighs in those rather tight jeans. 

(Hell, Albus’s own jeans are definitely too tight, but it’s a whole different look on Scorpius.) 

In the soft lighting of the bar, he’s positively glowing. And, well, Albus is only human.

‘What do you think of this place?’ he asks, grasping for something to say that isn’t about how indecently attractive Scorpius has the nerve to be. ‘I’ve never been to a Muggle bar before.’

So far, the place looks like a toned-down version of regular wizarding bars Albus is used to, in the sense that drinks aren’t floating through the air of their own accord and no one has accidentally set themselves on fire yet.

‘Me neither. It’s embarrassing how bad I am with Muggle stuff, really. Grace says I’m lucky to have her as my useful Muggleborn friend, and, well, she’s not wrong. Hopefully she and Molly will keep us right tonight.’

Albus attempts to summon a witty, engaging response, but he’s suddenly aware that his leg is rather close to Scorpius’s under the table. He wonders if Scorpius is thinking about that too.

Or maybe he’s just thinking about the number of ways they could mess up tonight and break the Statute of Secrecy and out themselves as wizards in a bar packed with Muggles.

‘Did your cousin like her present, by the way?’ he asks, forcing his mind to move on.

Scorpius looks pleased that Albus remembered the reason he’d been in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. As if Albus hadn’t memorised every detail of their conversation. 

‘She did. Your suggestion went down a storm. I think I’ve snagged cousin of the year. I mean, I’m also her only cousin, but still.’ 

Albus grins, and starts to respond, but then Grace and Zabini descend on their table, presenting each of them with a tall, colourful drink adorned with an impractical amount of fruit. Molly is still at the bar, chatting animatedly with a girl in a khaki jumpsuit. 

‘How’d it go?’ Scorpius asks Zabini, inspecting the leafy substance protruding from his glass.

‘He ordered _and_ paid and nothing went wrong,’ Grace says proudly, rubbing his shoulder like he’s a dog who just learned to roll over. Zabini beams.

Later in the evening, Grace takes Scorpius with her to the bar for another round of drinks (‘It’ll be a good experience for you, you old pureblood’), and Albus can’t help but notice that he seems to get somewhat distracted on the way back to their table.

‘Looks like Scorpius has made a friend,’ Albus observes wryly, nodding in his direction.

Zabini snorts. ‘What? _Malfoy?'_

He and Molly follow Albus’s gaze across the bar to where Scorpius is chatting with a dark-haired guy in chinos and a blazer. Albus doesn’t understand Zabini’s surprise. He’s pretty sure everyone in the room would try to hit on Scorpius if they thought they stood a chance. 

With casual confidence, Zabini says, ‘That guy won’t get anywhere with him.’

‘No?’ Molly asks. 

‘Not his type.’

The guy in question is tall, tan, slim and gorgeous. His cheekbones are positively indecent. Albus is pretty sure he’s everyone’s type.

‘He wouldn’t date a Muggle?’ Albus asks, thinking this wasn’t very on-brand for this generation of Malfoy.

‘What? Shit, no. Not what I meant. It’s just he prefers guys who are more …’ Zabini pauses. ‘Who are less … wiry.’ 

Albus takes another look at the guy. He’s not exactly scrawny. But if huge, ripped, guys-who-could-deadlift-you are Scorpius’s type, maybe he doesn’t qualify. 

‘Sure,’ he says, thinking that Scorpius is, frankly, an idiot to pass up a chance with this guy and his cheekbones. He glances at Molly, who raises her eyebrows at him and takes a long sip of her scotch. 

But it seems Zabini was right, as Scorpius makes his excuses and returns to their table shortly afterwards, presenting Albus with another fruity cocktail and sitting down next to him.

Later that night, when Zabini is well and truly pissed, he throws an arm around Scorpius’s shoulder.

‘Good for you, mate,’ he declares, patting him on the chest. ‘Got rid of Cheekbones. Hot. But not your guy.’

‘Okay,’ Scorpius says, exasperated, as Zabini nuzzles into his neck. ‘Where’s Grace? When you’re being affectionate-drunk, you’re her problem.’ 

‘You already have a guy,’ Zabini chirps.

‘Grace!’ Scorpius's voice is rather shrill. 

Zabini seems unconcerned. ‘ _Wiry_ ,’ he says earnestly to Albus, and Albus nods encouragingly, trying not to laugh and failing.

Scorpius untangles himself from Zabini, who promptly tangles himself up with Grace instead. Scorpius shoots Albus an apologetic grin. ‘I think I should take them home,’ he says.

Molly pulls Albus to the side. ‘I’m going back with Felicity,’ she says, indicating the girl in the khaki jumpsuit across the bar, who throws her a winning smile. 

‘Have fun,’ Albus grins. ‘Be safe.’

‘Fucking hell, Albus.’ But she’s grinning too, and there’s a glint her in eye as she asks, ‘Are you going back with Malfoy, then?’

As it happens, he is going back to Scorpius’s flat. But purely for practical purposes, so he can use their fireplace to floo home. Nothing more to it than that.

Grace orders them a Muggle taxi. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not wizards,’ Zabini tells the driver seriously. 

Back at the flat, Zabini and Grace disappear to their bedroom, and Scorpius presents Albus with a bottle of beer. ‘If you fancy another drink,’ he adds quickly.

Albus _definitely_ fancies another drink. 

There’s only one couch in their small living space, supplemented by floor cushions and a couple of bean bags. So it’s not a surprise when Albus sits at one end of the couch and Scorpius flops down next to him, but it’s nice all the same. Scorpius pulls his legs up underneath him and angles himself on the couch so he’s facing Albus.

For something to do, Albus sips his beer. ‘Nice place,’ he says, glancing demonstratively around the room. 

‘Yeah.’ Scorpius shrugs. ‘Good location. Price isn’t bad for this area.’

‘Been here long?’

‘Six months, nearly.’

Albus nods. He takes a swig of his beer. ‘So did it come furnished, or –’

‘Al,’ Scorpius says. ‘I don’t really want to talk about the flat.’ 

He sounds … nervous? Albus stares at him.

He continues, ‘Do _you_ want to talk about the flat?’

‘I… No?’

Albus is fairly sure that Scorpius is gazing into his eyes. _Gazing._ That’s not a casual look. It’s definitely intentional. Unless Albus is so buzzed off a couple of cocktails and two sips of beer that he’s just seeing everything he wants to see.

It could easily be that.

But then Scorpius sets his beer down on the table. He leans closer to Albus. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to ask a question, and Albus’s brain just about shuts down, and –

And there’s an audible moan from the other side of the wall.

‘Um.’ Scorpius’s eyebrows shoot upwards. 

Unfortunately, the moaning continues.

‘I don’t have flatmates,’ Albus says conversationally. 

‘Oh? How’s that working out for you?’

‘Well. Really well.’

There’s a long gasp and an exclamation of ‘Fuck, baby!’

Albus feels like he’s in a bad romance novel.

‘Grace is always loud,’ Scorpius says, and Albus splutters. ‘Zabini’s always unnervingly quiet.’ 

Albus tries to take another sip of his drink. His wand is in his back pocket, but it seems oddly discourteous to cast a silencing charm on someone else’s flatmates, no matter how audibly amorous. 

Mercifully, Scorpius seems to remember that he’s a wizard, snatches his wand up from the table and mutters a quick charm. The auditory evidence of Zabini and Grace’s sex life vanishes from their ears. 

Scorpius looks flustered and completely adorable. Albus watches him for a long moment, but then Scorpius starts asking him about his job, apparently desperately interested to learn what attracted Albus to the exciting world of Floo Network Regulation, and whatever was happening thirty seconds ago seems to vanish. 

When Scorpius offers him another beer, Albus declines and makes his excuses. He stumbles into his own fireplace around three a.m.

Upstairs in his bedroom, his clothes are still spread out everywhere. He makes particular miserable note of the pile on the floor of stuff that didn’t fit. Because he’s a glutton for punishment, he stands in front of the mirror, tugging off his jumper and t-shirt and looking at himself properly for the first time in – fuck, a _really_ long time.

It shouldn’t surprise him to see more than a small pooch of tummy over his waistband, something easy enough to suck in, to hide with enough layers, the sort of thing he’d possessed for most of his teens, puppy fat he’d hoped he would grow out of and never did. 

But it still does surprise him, sometimes, how _much_ of him there is these days. He prods at the fat round his middle, at the top of his belly where it’s firm, a little bloated, and at the doughier flesh below. He can’t blame all of this on Christmas. He’s been working on this gut for a good few years at this point. 

He pulls his shirt back on, works his way through a large bag of crisps, and goes to bed feeling deflated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad ending this chapter on a sad note for Albus, but fear not, I'm too fond of him to keep things miserable for very long. Thanks for reading!


	3. The Haunt, York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go on not-a-date to an open mic night. Albus and Scorpius are baffled by poetry. Molly is an aggressive but effective wingman.

On Wednesday, Albus meets Molly before work for tea and bacon sandwiches at the White Rose, a little wizarding café just round the corner from the Minster. Molly likes the colourful mugs and teapots, Albus likes their selection of teas, and Flavia the owner always beams at them when they come in. 

‘So, Friday was fun.’ Molly adds a generous amount of brown sauce to her sandwich. ‘Scorpius is great,’ she says matter-of-factly.

‘He is,’ Albus agrees, stirring his tea (orange blossom, warming yet refreshing, absolutely delicious). He’s got a side of hash browns too because, well, it’s that kind of day. And Flavia knows he likes hash browns, and she suggested it, and really he’s just trying to support a valued local business in an uncertain economy. 

But he’s definitely going on a diet, and it will definitely start on Monday.

Molly is still singing Scorpius’s praises. ‘He’s polite, funny, dresses well, buys a round, tells interesting anecdotes…’

Albus doesn’t exactly disagree with her, but it’s definitely not helpful for him to dwell on what a fantastic human being Scorpius is.

‘You had fun with Felicity, I take it?’ He tries to raise an eyebrow in the infuriating way that she does, but it doesn’t really have the same effect.

‘I’m a lady, Albus, I don’t fuck and tell. Did I miss anything after I left?’

‘Nope.’ He takes a sip of tea. 

‘No progress with the Scorpius situation, then?’

Albus sighs. He’d hoped she would be cured of this delusion after actually meeting Scorpius and witnessing first-hand how platonic everything was. 

(But there had been that odd moment on the couch, hadn’t there, where Scorpius had leaned in, looked expectant, a little nervous, and then backed away at the last minute. What had _that_ been about? 

It had felt, sort of, just for a moment, like Scorpius was going to kiss him. Which is a completely ridiculous thought. He imagines trying to say that out loud to Molly. _Can you believe it? Hilarious, right? Scorpius Malfoy trying to kiss little old me?)_

‘No,’ he says primly. ‘Obviously there isn’t.’

‘Don’t “obviously” it, Al.’

He says pointedly, ‘It was nice to catch up with Grace and Zabini too.’ 

‘It was. And that reminds me. You know how you love coming to my poetry readings?’

He’s a little thrown by the abrupt segue. ‘Er –'

‘The Haunt, next Saturday, 8pm,’ she says briskly. ‘Open mic night. Grace is coming, and she’s bringing Zabini, and they’re basically Scorpius’s parents so I imagine they’ll bring him. Or you could shoot him a letter and see if he wants to come? Just an idea.’

‘Since when do you invite Grace to open mic nights in York? Or to _anything?’_

‘She’s nice,’ Molly says. ‘We had a great time the other night. And she appreciates literature,’ she says somewhat accusingly, as though it is a personal failing of Albus’s that he doesn’t. 

Albus is astonished that Molly managed to befriend Grace to this extent _and_ find herself a girl to take home all in the same night. As happens all too regularly, he finds himself a little in awe of her. 

*

It would be inaccurate to say that Albus writes to Scorpius because Molly told him to. But he figures sending one casual letter can’t hurt.

_Molly says you three are coming to her poetry thing next weekend? Should be a good night._

Scorpius’s reply is pleasingly prompt.

_Wouldn’t miss it for the world._

*

The Haunt is a nice enough coffeehouse-that-serves-booze on the outskirts of the city centre, not far from Clifford’s Tower. It’s often populated by tourists during the day, and at night it becomes a hangout for students and artistic types and, apparently, Molly, who looks like she could eviscerate everyone else in the room with one well-placed glare.

There isn’t really space for _bounding_ in the cramped seating area, but Grace bounds over all the same, Zabini and Scorpius in her wake. Scorpius is wearing grey chinos and nice shoes and he’s French-tucked his shirt, and Albus is momentarily very distracted. He heroically shifts his focus to Zabini instead, which is easy to do as he’s wearing a loud pair of turquoise robes.

Grace instructs Scorpius to save them a table, so he and Albus sit down while she and Zabini sort out drinks and Molly chats with some of the other open mic regulars. 

(Later, Albus will realise that Molly, Grace and Zabini spent a large amount of time orchestrating ways to leave him and Scorpius alone together. He’s deeply exasperated and grudgingly grateful.)

‘I hope you’re good with poetry,’ Scorpius says once they’ve secured a table towards the back. ‘I’m counting on you to explain everything to me when I don’t understand it.’

‘Oh yeah, I’m an expert. Not a fish out of water in the slightest. Okay, no, it’s not really my area. But I’ve been to a couple of these things to support Molly, and they’re usually fun. I always feel very cultured afterwards.’ 

‘This is my first time.’

‘It’s a local arts event, in a hipster bar, and you’re in _academia_ ,’ Albus says in mock astonishment. ‘Surely you _live_ for this sort of thing.’

Scorpius rolls his eyes at that. ‘Be honest – is Molly’s poetry any good? Or will I have to lie through my teeth about how wonderful it is?’

‘I think it’s good. Though I’m not sure I would know if it was bad. But Molly is brilliant at basically everything. No one’s ever booed her,’ he adds helpfully, and Scorpius snorts down his laughter.

A blue-haired witch with a magically magnified voice takes to the stage, thanks them all for coming and introduces the first poet. Scorpius’s chair is angled slightly ahead of Albus’s, interfering slightly with his view of the stage, which makes it dangerously easy to glance at him without making it obvious. So it seems wasteful not to glance at him at least occasionally. 

It’s fair to say that Scorpius looks a little baffled by the proceedings. He spends most of the time with one pale eyebrow arched curiously, his brow slightly furrowed. He applauds dutifully after each speaker has finished, plastering on a bright smile as though it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. 

For his part, Albus spends a lot of the first half trying to hide his own smile and struggling to keep his eyes focused on the front of the room.

At one point, during the muted applause for pompous wizard with a long, plaited beard, Scorpius leans so close to Albus that he can feel his breath on his neck. Which definitely doesn’t cause his insides to lurch, or anything.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Scorpius whispers to him. 

Albus bites back a laugh. ‘Erm. It might’ve been about capitalism. Maybe?’

Scorpius is wide-eyed. ‘I thought it was about bees.’

As the blue-haired witch returns to the stage to announce a short break, Scorpius touches Albus’s shoulder to get his attention. ‘Let’s go outside for a bit. It’s quite stuffy in here.’

Albus follows him out onto the little terrace out back. There are a few people out there already, mostly smokers, huddled around a floating, portable fire. Scorpius pulls his cloak more tightly around himself, and Albus pulls out his wand to conjure a little floating fire of their own. 

His brain treacherously points out that Scorpius’s grey eyes look like they’re sparkling in the firelight, and he tries to push such unhelpful thoughts firmly to the back of his mind. To the back of his mind, out of his skull, all the way down the street, in fact.

‘It turns out I definitely don’t understand poetry,’ Scorpius says. ‘That one about mining? And merpeople? Was it a metaphor? Is everything a metaphor?’

Albus throws up his hands. ‘Don’t look at me. I was very lost.’ 

Scorpius grins, and meets Albus’s eye briefly, then runs a hand through his blond hair and seemingly becomes very interested in the plant pot by his foot. For something to do, Albus holds his hands out over the little floating fire, watching the flames crackle beneath his outstretched fingers.

‘Um. So I was thinking,’ Scorpius says, watching the little fire between them. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing after this? We could grab another drink somewhere? Or – I don’t know – go for ice cream? Or something?’

Albus isn’t sure why Scorpius is talking about ice cream at 9pm in the middle of January when they’re both wrapped in thick cloaks and he’s literally warming his hands on the fire he’s been forced to conjure to prevent his fingers falling off. 

But he says, ‘Yeah, sounds fun. Drinks might be better, though. Molly’s lactose intolerant. And I probably shouldn’t have ice cream. Meant to be on a diet, technically. But if you three want some, we could go? Although, it’s pretty cold. Does anywhere even sell ice cream at this time of year?’ 

Scorpius looks baffled, which is probably understandable after Albus’s word-vomit of a response. 

‘We could ask the others?’ Albus tries, when Scorpius still doesn’t say anything and the pause starts to become uncomfortable.

‘You’re on a diet?’ Scorpius blurts out.

_Shit._ Why had he mentioned _that?_ Scorpius is pretty much the last person on earth he wants to discuss his weight problem with. Albus feels his cheeks heating. 

But why does Scorpius look nearly as flustered as he does?

‘Well. In theory. Figured it was about time.’ He crosses his arms over his chest, self-conscious. 

‘You don’t need to be,’ Scorpius says quickly.

It’s nice of him to say so, even if it’s patently untrue. ‘Uh, thanks,’ Albus says, feeling deeply awkward. 

Then Scorpius says, ‘We should all do drinks. Yeah. Definitely.’ He pauses. ‘I’ll see you inside.’ 

Albus watches him retreat into the warmth of the bar, slightly confused. He’s left with the distinct impression that he’s missed something.

When he returns to the table, Scorpius is chatting with Zabini, and Molly with Grace. He sits back down next to Scorpius. The blue-haired witch welcomes them back and ushers the next speaker onto the stage.

Molly reads to appreciative applause, including an actual cheer from Zabini, which doesn’t really fit with the vibe of the evening, but no one tells him so. Albus beams at her and gives her a thumbs-up.

They sit through plenty more poets. But this time – no matter how obscure and impenetrable the content, or how theatrical or pompous the reader – Scorpius doesn’t lean in close or whisper in his ear or ask him to explain anything. Not even once.

*

When the final poet has had their time in the spotlight and the evening is drawing to a close, Molly says firmly, ‘I’m going for a smoke. Albus, why don’t you join me.’

Albus follows her out onto the terrace, bemused, leaving Grace, Zabini and Scorpius to their conversation.

‘I don’t smoke,’ he tells Molly once they’re outside. ‘You don’t smoke.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘Are you okay? You were great up there. You know you were great, right? It was very, er…’ He tries to think of the right word that suggests he properly appreciated her literary endeavours. ‘Evocative.’ 

She puts her hands on her hips and surveys him shrewdly, looking rather like she’s channelling the energy of her namesake grandmother. 

‘Why does Scorpius look like you slapped him in the face with a dead fish?’ she asks.

Bloody hell. She was _obsessed._

‘Molly, I appreciate the effort – really, I do – but I think you’re a bit too invested in this. Shouldn’t you be inside discussing scansion and imagery and whatnot with everyone else? Please don’t waste energy worrying about whether or not Scorpius and I are having a pleasant conversation.’

‘Scorpius hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening, and either you’re being oblivious, or you’re being a dick.’

Albus gapes at her. 

‘Normally, I don’t care who you date, or if you date anyone at all,’ Molly says. ‘It’s not my place to meddle. But I’ve never seen you like this before. You really like him. And you seem completely unaware of how much he likes you. So I feel _honour bound_ to meddle in this.’ 

‘Come on.’ He’s irritated with her now. This is the most direct she’s been about it and it’s _embarrassing_ hearing the words out loud like that. ‘I know we’ve been joking about this, but that’s – it’s not – that’s not what this is.’ He lowers his voice, even though there’s no one else out on the terrace with them. Probably because it’s pretty fucking cold at this point and everyone else has enough sense to stay inside. ‘Look at him. He is not interested in _me.’_

‘Okay, he’s good looking. And kind of a dork, which just makes him more attractive. But why does that mean he’s not interested in you?’ 

‘I’m not his type.’ 

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Wild stab in the dark. Also, general life experience. Anyway, Zabini _said,_ didn’t he. You were there. He said Scorpius likes built, ripped guys. Muscles. Gym.’ He gestures demonstratively at himself. ‘Distinctly not a look I’ve got going for me.’

It’s Molly’s turn to gape at him.

‘What?’ he demands.

‘ _That_ is what you took away from that conversation?’

He doesn’t know what she’s getting at, and he is very much not in the mood to argue with her about this. He doesn’t want Molly talking him up in some misguided attempt to boost his self-esteem. Yes, he likes Scorpius – likes him rather a lot – but he’s not delusional. He is familiar with the real world and how it works. No one who looks like Scorpius has ever given him a second thought – or, frankly, a first thought. Subtract a few years and forty-or-so pounds to when he’d been a skinny teenager, and no one who looked like Scorpius had wanted to date him then, either.

(Okay, he’d been a skinny-ish teenager, and it’s probably more than forty pounds at this point, but that’s a worry for another time.)

He opens his mouth and closes it again. But then Molly says, so softly that it takes him aback, ‘Don’t sell yourself short, Albus. Because that’s what you’re doing.’

Albus feels inadequately prepared to deal with this level of affection from Molly. Her tone is positively _gentle,_ and that alone is alarming. 

‘Let’s look at the facts here,’ she says, returning to a more familiar business-like manner. ‘He saw you for the first time since Hogwarts and immediately asked you to go for a drink. He took you on a night out with his friends. He showed up tonight for some poetry he doesn’t care about, in a city he doesn’t live in, just because you’ll be here. He isn’t doing these things to hang out with me or with Grace and Zabini. He’s trying to spend time with _you.’_

Albus is still rather wrong-footed from her previous comment. Now, he feels rather like she’s poured a cup of lukewarm tea over his head. ‘Well. I mean. When you put it like that.’

He glances back towards the bar where, through a misty window, he can just about make out Scorpius chatting with Grace, looking tall and lean and beautiful. 

And then it hits him. 

‘Oh god. He just asked me out.’

Molly stares at him. 

‘He started talking about ice cream and – I said no. I think I said no? Bloody – fucking – Merlin –’

Her expression descends to a whole new level of exasperated. She snorts out a laugh. ‘Albus, I love you, but you are absolutely _useless_ sometimes.’

‘You may have a point.’

‘In your defence, it seems like Scorpius is too. If the pair of you had actually talked about things like adults, rather than dancing around everything in some sort of socially awkward samba, then all of this could’ve been avoided.’

It’s hard to disagree with her there. Eventually he says, ‘I should probably talk to Scorpius.’

‘ _Yes._ For the sake of my sanity, please talk to him.’ 

‘Molly,’ he says, ‘you’re brilliant. Thank you. I mean that.’

‘I am aware.’ 

Back at the table, Grace is wearing a suspiciously Mollyish expression on her face. The two of them and Zabini somehow seem to melt away without explanation.

‘You’ve scared them off,’ Scorpius says, observing the mass exodus with a look of amusement. 

‘Well, I’m very intimidating.’ Albus sits down next to him. ‘Um. There’s a chance I’ve been a bit of an ass.’ 

‘Oh? Seems unlikely. What’ve you…’ He trails away, noticing Molly, Grace and Zabini watching them from across the room. ‘Ah. Have I missed something? Did Grace…? I mean. What are we talking about?’

‘We should go for ice cream, if you still want to,’ Albus says. ‘Or we could have some at my place? To clarify,’ he adds hurriedly, ‘just you and me. Without the others. Actually, I’m not sure I have any ice cream at home. But we could have, er – risotto?’ he says a little wildly, cringing even as he says it, aghast that his brain seems to have abandoned him at this crucial moment. 

Scorpius stares at him. Then his lips twitch into a grin. ‘Yeah. I could definitely, er, eat some risotto. Yes. Let’s do that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure why I ended up being so shady about poetry and open mic nights in this chapter? I like poetry as much as the next person-with-an-English-degree. But apparently Albus and Scorpius hate it, so.


	4. 23 Wylan Drive, Fulford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's still not a date, but it is at least an important conversation. Albus gets some insecurities off his chest, and Scorpius doesn’t understand what he’s so worried about.

Albus ends up apparating the pair of them back to his house. Apparently Scorpius never got around to obtaining a licence, so there’s a new thing Albus has learnt about him. His brain helpfully presents him with the Department of Magical Transportation’s annual statistics regarding pass/fail rates in post-Hogwarts-age learners.

If he gets stuck for conversation, at least there’s something scintillating to fall back on.

He really doesn’t have a game plan for this, which now seems like a serious oversight. Scorpius is in his house, hovering in his living room, inspecting the photographs on his walls, the books on his shelves. _Merlin._ He wishes he’d cleaned up more thoroughly before setting out. 

‘Nice place, Al.’ Scorpius emits a low whistle of appreciation. ‘I keep forgetting you’re an actual adult with a Ministry job.’ 

Albus shrugs, unable to deny that, yes, he has a decent level of financial stability and suddenly feeling rather guilty about it. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that his parents are literal millionaires. He deflects with, ‘Didn’t you grow up in a mansion, Malfoy?’

‘Well, yes. But now I live in a poky flat with the rent split three ways.’

‘That’s London for you,’ Albus says.

‘We’re getting into the north-south divide now, really?’ 

Albus grins. Maybe this doesn’t have to be difficult. They can just chat like regular people, and he can offer Scorpius a drink or two, and at some point, he’ll try to slip into conversation _so, just to be clear, you’re interested in fucking me, right? Not necessarily right this minute – but at some point – in the near future – you and me – yes?_

Feeling suddenly flustered, he heads into the kitchen, opening a cupboard at random. 

Scorpius appears behind him. ‘Oh. Are you actually going to make risotto?’

‘What? No. Of course not. That would be strange. Um. Mead?’ 

‘Sure.’

Albus summons a bottle of mead and two glasses, handing one to Scorpius. They stand there for a moment in Albus’s kitchen, drinking mid-price Northumbrian mead, each waiting for the other to be the first to speak.

Because there’s an opportunity to feel uncomfortable, Albus’s brain seizes it, and he can’t help being aware of how much space he takes up. His narrow galley kitchen isn’t really made to accommodate multiple large adults at the same time, and if Scorpius wanted to get past him for any reason, it would be an extremely tight squeeze.

But that’s the _least_ helpful thing to be thinking about right now, so he pushes it to the back of his mind.

He focuses on Scorpius instead, who’s leaning against the kitchen cabinets, the glass held between his long fingers, swirling the amber liquid within. He’s looking at Albus with his head tilted slightly to one side, and he seems calm and collected, noticeably less flustered than he had barely ten minutes ago at the bar. 

Perhaps the mead has helped, or the fact they’re alone rather than in a bar packed with people, or that they no longer have Molly and Grace and Zabini peering over their shoulders. Or perhaps it’s that he realises Albus has finally picked up on his clumsy attempts at flirting, now that he’s in Albus’s kitchen and Albus is plying him with medieval alcohol.

Albus hopes the last one is at least partly true. Otherwise this whole thing could go tits up rather quickly.

‘So,’ he says. He should probably start. He invited Scorpius back here, after all, under the pretence of eating risotto. He hopes Scorpius doesn’t think that was some bizarre attempt at a euphemism. ‘Um. I’m a bit shit at this.’

Scorpius raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s fair to say I’m no expert.’

‘Molly and Grace think we’re useless. They might be right.’

‘They usually are.’

‘There’s a chance I’ve given off the wrong impression,’ Albus tries.

‘Oh?’

‘To you, specifically.’

‘Is that so?’ Scorpius takes a sip of mead. 

He actually looks a little smug now, the git. It’s possible that he’s trying to look _suave,_ which is faintly absurd and somehow still extremely attractive. Albus is fairly certain that nothing either of them have done this evening could be categorised as _suave._

Scorpius continues, ‘Because the impression I got was that you probably weren’t that interested in me.’

‘Right. Yeah. That would be the wrong impression I was talking about.’

Scorpius looks at him, swirling the mead in his glass. Albus tries to work out what eloquent, witty, somewhat self-deprecating thing to say next. 

And then Scorpius’s hand comes to rest lightly on his waist. 

_Okay._

Scorpius’s hand just sits there for a moment, and it feels natural, comfortable. Albus doesn’t even waste too much mental energy on panicking about the fact that Scorpius is touching some of his softest, flabbiest, most insecurity-inducing parts. 

Scorpius pulls him closer, or Albus takes a step forward, or some combination of the two.

Albus leans in slightly, and Scorpius’s lips rush to meet his. 

Scorpius tastes honey-sweet, and both hands are on Albus’s waist, his grip not firm, but intentional. Albus is still holding the glass of mead, hand hovering awkwardly in mid-air, but he brings his other hand to Scorpius’s neck, cupping it gently, feeling the brush of soft hair on his skin.

All in all, it’s a very nice kiss.

They stand there for a moment afterwards. Scorpius looks as though he’s trying to look casual, but his cheeks are slightly flushed. 

Albus blinks, trying to restart his brain. ‘So, you kissed me just to prove Molly and Grace wrong, right?’ he finds himself saying. ‘I respect that.’

Scorpius hums. ‘Pretty sure you kissed me there, Potter.’

‘Absolute slander. If anyone asks, I’ll deny it. I’ll –’

‘Al?’

‘Yes?’

Scorpius tucks his fingers into the belt loops of Albus’s jeans and pulls him closer again.

‘Please shut up.’

*

‘I had the biggest crush on you at Hogwarts, you know,’ Scorpius says in between kisses on the rather uncomfortable couch in Albus’s living room.

‘Really?’ 

‘Why do you think I always badgered you about Transfiguration homework?’

‘Because I was top of the class?’

‘Well, yes. _But.’_

‘If it helps, I wasn’t exactly _indifferent_ to you back then, either,’ Albus admits.

Scorpius smiles, looking like a cat in sunshine. Then his lips go to Albus’s neck, his voice getting a little rougher as he says, ‘Since I saw you in Diagon Alley, I’ve felt like I was back at school, like I was a bloody teenager again. It’s embarrassing, Al, and it’s entirely your fault. If you could try being less insufferably attractive for five minutes, that would make things much easier.’ 

Albus stills. He’s not sure what to do with words like that. 

He runs his fingers along the length of Scorpius’s spine, feels the smooth, firm planes of his back. Scorpius is a fit guy. This isn’t new information. Based on looks alone, Scorpius clearly works out more often than once in a blue moon, and now that Albus has had the brief opportunity to touch him, he's only more confident in this theory. He presumably finds plenty of time for trips to the gym in between serving coffee, and writing about wandlore, and contending with Grace and Zabini, and all the other things that occupy his time. 

Albus is fiercely aware of the contrast all of a sudden, of how his own generous midsection is pressing against Scorpius, filling the space between them. He’s hit by a wave of embarrassment. 

(Somewhere in his mind, he’s also aware that Scorpius doesn’t seem put off. If anything, his hands seem drawn to Albus’s chubbiest bits, occasionally moving away but always wandering back. But that thought is too rational to hold much sway in this moment.) 

‘Al?’ Scorpius pulls away. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ Feeling an overwhelming need to vocalise this, to hang a clearly worded sign above the elephant in the room, he says, ‘I look pretty different now compared to how I did at school.’

‘You do,’ Scorpius agrees.

Albus waits. Feels his chest tighten.

Scorpius says, ‘You wear glasses now.’ He gently kisses along Albus's jawline, then the soft underside of his chin. ‘They suit you.’

Albus isn’t sure whether he’s joking. He sounds sincere enough. But to have Scorpius dodge the issue is somehow even more embarrassing than to face it straight on. And it suddenly seems very important to him that Scorpius should acknowledge that this _is_ a thing, even if he wants to pretend that it’s not.

‘It probably hasn’t escaped your notice,’ Albus says, ‘but I’m also, er, pretty fat.’

Scorpius shrugs and says, ‘You are pretty.’

Albus rolls his eyes, and Scorpius grins at his own wit.

‘And, yeah, you’re a bit fat.’ He takes his hand and places it on Albus’s stomach, above his belly button, and gives it a gentle rub. 

Which just about knocks all semi-coherent thoughts from Albus’s brain. 

He hadn't been expecting Scorpius to say that. Or to _do_ that. 

‘You look great. Where are you going with this?’ Scorpius grins. ‘Just fishing for compliments?’

_‘Scorpius.’_ It’s as though he’s being intentionally difficult. 

His hand is still resting on Albus’s stomach, casually affectionate, and somehow really fucking intimate. 

It’s distracting. 

Albus struggles to marshal his thoughts.

Then he remembers something – something from a fortnight ago, when Zabini had been under the influence of several fruity cocktails at the Muggle bar.

‘Oh my god. _Wiry.’_

Scorpius stares at him.

‘That night at the bar. Zabini tried to tell me. He said you prefer guys who are _less wiry.’_

Scorpius splutters. ‘Why was _Zabini_ trying to tell you _anything_ – I’m gonna kill him –’

‘So you have a type,’ Albus says, everything falling into place. ‘You like bigger guys.’

Scorpius takes his hands off Albus, which is a shame, and leans back against the couch.

‘I mean, historically, I’ve usually dated guys who are, I suppose, heavier,’ Scorpius says eloquently. ‘But I don’t think that’s relevant.’

‘Not _relevant?’_

Albus watches him carefully. He looks a little frustrated, as though he doesn’t understand why they’re having this discussion at all.

‘Look,’ Scorpius says, ‘I think you’re great, and I like spending time with you, and, yeah, I think you’ve got a great body. Isn’t that how you generally feel about people you’re attracted to?’

‘Okay,’ Albus concedes, ‘but –’

‘So why is this different?’ 

Albus isn’t sure why he’s trying to argue so insistently with a guy who’s showering him with compliments. But it _is_ different. He’s the fat guy here, he would know. And someone saying _you’re fat_ and _you look great_ in the same breath? Someone going out of their way to touch his belly rather than awkwardly manoeuvring round it and trying to pretend it doesn’t exist? That’s new. This is all really fucking new. 

He opens his mouth to argue a little more, really hammer his point home. But then he looks at Scorpius. He meets Albus’s gaze, his grey eyes achingly earnest.

‘I’ve put all my cards on the table here,’ Scorpius says. ‘So … well. If we’re not on the same page, now would be a good time to say so.’

Albus has wanted to be on this particular page with Scorpius ever since he extracted a pygmy puff from his cloak in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes three weeks ago. Bloody hell, his seventeen-year-old self would be cheering with excitement right now, completely bewildered as to why Albus was hesitating even for a second. 

But he knows perfectly well why he’s hesitating. Because it’s easy – so painfully easy – to fall back into insecurity. But that doesn’t mean it’s his only option. It doesn’t mean the thoughts in his head are _true._

_Don’t sell yourself short, Albus,_ Molly had said. _Because that’s what you’re doing._

‘We’re on the same page,’ he says, and a smile creeps back onto Scorpius's face. ‘Same paragraph, hopefully. Same sentence might be pushing it –’

Scorpius threads an arm around him, pressing into the small of his back, apparently unconcerned by how soft it is under his fingers, or how far his arm has to reach around him, or a dozen other things that Albus's brain is encouraging him to obsess about.

‘So … we’re okay?’ Scorpius asks.

Albus grins. ‘Yeah, we’re okay.’

‘And I can kiss you now?’

‘Yes, Scorpius, you can _definitely_ kiss me.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, just to finish things off with some self-indulgent fluff :)


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace throws a dinner party. Zabini and Molly bicker about Gobstones. Albus eats too much rice pudding. Scorpius is utterly smitten.

‘Are you sure I can’t help at all?’ Albus asks for around the eightieth time that evening, hovering awkwardly in the doorway of his own kitchen.

Watching him from across the living room, Scorpius can’t help but smile. He spends a lot of time smiling at Albus these days, or so he's been told. Zabini informs him, loftily and often, that it’s _sickening,_ that it’s been months now and he should have the decency to start being more miserable. Grace has complimented him on his Cheshire Cat look, and then chastised him for not understanding the reference.

‘Everything is under control,’ Grace assures Albus, waving a wooden spoon in the air in a way that doesn’t exactly induce confidence. ‘Don’t you worry. Sit down, have a drink, get comfortable,’ she says, which is a bit rich considering they’re in _his_ house. ‘Scorpius’ll come out in hives if he’s apart from you for too long.’

Scorpius sighs theatrically. Grace smirks at him from the kitchen, a smudge of something green above her right eyebrow.

Not looking reassured in the slightest, Albus gives up and returns to the armchair by the fireplace. Scorpius is perched on one of the arms of said chair and leans into him when he sits down. 

Albus is generally a more endearing human being than anyone has the right to be, but he’s particularly adorable this evening – ever so twitchy, very keen not to offend, but truly, utterly desperate to bring order to the chaotic situation Grace has introduced into his home. 

He gets grumpy when told he’s being adorable, however, so Scorpius determines that now is not the time for teasing and he should probably just enjoy this quietly. 

‘I’m sure she isn’t destroying everything in your kitchen,’ he says soothingly, the corners of his mouth twitching. ‘No matter how much it sounds like she is. A couple of things will probably make it through unscathed.’

‘Hm.’ 

‘It’s your fault for agreeing to let her do this.’

‘I’m not convinced I _did_ agree to it,’ Albus says under his breath. ‘It just sort of happened.’

Grace had got it into her head that she wanted to throw a dinner party. Then she realised there was far too little space in their own flat to host such an event, at least not on the grand scale she was imagining, and somehow she had managed to commandeer Albus’s house for the occasion instead. 

If he’d tried, Scorpius could perhaps have rescued Al from this unfortunate fate. But it’s probably funnier this way.

‘We’re using your house next time,’ Albus says to Molly, who’s lying on the sofa reading the Daily Prophet. 

She lowers the paper, peering owlishly over the top of it. ‘Not in this lifetime, Albus.’

‘Ready?’ Zabini asks the room at large, looking up from his cross-legged position on the floor, rather resembling a gangly, excitable child. He gestures to the Gobstones pieces he has been painstakingly arranging on Albus’s coffee table. ‘We can fit in a quick match before the food’s ready.’ 

‘Are we really playing that?’ Molly wrinkles her nose. 

Zabini looks wounded, clutching a Gobstone to his chest as though her words might have hurt its delicate feelings. 

‘You showed up to a dinner and games night with half the 2022 Hogwarts Gobstones team,’ Albus reminds her. ‘You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.’

‘It’s a children’s game –’

‘That is a common misconception,’ Zabini says hotly. ‘It is a game of _strategy_ and _precision_ …’

Scorpius has heard this particular tirade many times before, most recently at a gaming convention where Zabini debated the matter fiercely with an international wizarding chess player and somehow, impressively, managed to walk away with a modicum of dignity remaining. He allows Zabini’s indignation and Molly’s exasperation to fade into background noise, distracting himself by slipping an arm around Albus’s shoulders and brushing a stray hair from where it’s settled in the wool of his jumper. 

Said jumper is pleasantly soft, dark blue, and hugs his midsection in a way that Scorpius has been trying valiantly to ignore all evening, no matter how incredibly distracting it might be. His dark hair is messy and soft, his round cheeks a little flushed in the glow of the fire. _Merlin._ They haven’t even sat down for dinner yet. It would probably be poor manners to kick the others out right now and drag Albus upstairs regardless. _Probably._

Scorpius can behave himself. His parents raised him to be a gentleman, after all. 

But if Albus would stop smirking at him with those pink lips and wicked emerald eyes as if he knows _exactly_ what Scorpius is thinking, it would be much easier to remember that.

*

‘To Grace’s credit, that was much better than I expected,’ Scorpius admits once everyone else has gone home. ‘Dessert aside, everything was pretty edible.’

‘Shame about the company,’ Albus says, ‘but that’s our fault for having terrible taste in friends.’

Scorpius grins, stretching lazily. He pulls Albus closer to him on the couch, and Albus nestles in against him. He still doesn’t look very comfortable, though, shifting a little on the sofa. Scorpius can see the hand sneaking to the top of his jeans, attempting to tug at the waistband surreptitiously.

The jeans were probably a bit on the small side _before_ the three-course dinner (plus cheeseboard, plus plenty of merlot) that Grace served, but Scorpius certainly isn’t complaining. Albus fills out those jeans _very_ nicely. 

He grumbles, ‘The rice pudding might have been a mistake.’

Scorpius hums, his hand settling in Albus’s hair. ‘Maybe.’ 

Grace’s choice of dessert had proved controversial. She had argued it was a timeless classic and exactly the sort of thing you wanted on a cold March evening. Scorpius and Zabini hadn’t touched the stuff, on the basis that it was revolting and they didn’t understand why Grace would choose to serve it. Molly used her lactose intolerance as an excuse not to take sides in the debate. Albus had hotly declared that they were all wrong and rice pudding was delicious, and he had immediately become Grace’s favourite. And then eaten most of what she had made.

‘But it was basically my duty to have seconds, given the circumstances.’

‘And thirds?’ Scorpius’s eyebrow is raised, his fingers gentle in Albus’s hair.

‘The third bowl was possibly less out of duty,’ Albus concedes. 

He pauses for a moment, and Scorpius can practically see the cogs whirring in his brain. 

‘Of course, I could have just skipped dessert altogether?’ Albus says, with enough rising intonation that it qualifies as a question. 

He says it lightly enough, a throwaway comment, an easy part of the joke they’re doing. Lightly enough that he’s giving Scorpius the option to ignore it if he wants to. But Scorpius knows there’s insecurity in there somewhere, the need for reassurance. 

‘I think you should have as much dessert as you like,’ he says evenly. Then he grins. ‘Even if it is rice pudding, which barely qualifies as a dessert.’

Albus smiles like it’s all still just a joke, but he’s pleased, too, Scorpius thinks. He needs this sometimes, and that’s okay. It’s not exactly a hardship for Scorpius to help remind him how _absolutely fucking fantastic_ he is. He’ll happily take one for the team there, whenever and wherever it’s required. 

Albus wriggles again on the couch, and eventually says, ‘Right, fuck it, I want no judgement here…’ 

Scorpius raises an eyebrow. 

‘… but I’m in my own house, on my own sofa, with my own boyfriend –’ 

‘Al. It’s fine. Undo your damn jeans.’

Albus unfastens the button, pulls the zip down slightly and looks like he can breathe normally again. ‘So it’s safe to say the magic has gone from the relationship at this point,’ he says, looking somewhat sheepish. ‘Already.’

‘Bold of you to assume there was any magic in the first place.’ Scorpius grins and leans down to kiss him.

‘You wound me, Malfoy.’ 

‘I like you saying that,’ Scorpius says after a moment, just because he’s warm and sleepy and happy with all the food and wine he’s had tonight, just because he means it.

‘Which bit? Me wounding you? Is that your thing?’

Scorpius rolls his eyes.

‘Or are we still on about rice pudding?’ Albus raises an eyebrow. ‘That gets you going, does it?’

‘Yes, that’s it, you’ve got me. I have a rice pudding fetish. This evening has been almost _unbearable_ for me.’

Albus snorts. ‘Well, I accept you as you are. No kink shaming here.’

Scorpius clarifies, ‘I like it when you call me your boyfriend.’

‘Soppy git,’ Albus mutters. But Scorpius can see that he’s smiling. ‘So what are my boyfriend and I going to do tonight? Fair warning, anything that involves me getting off this couch is a hard no.’

‘Unfortunate. That’s most of my evening plans out of the window.’

‘My sincerest apologies.’

‘I suppose I can think of a few things we could do,’ Scorpius says with a heavy, put-upon sigh, impressed by his own magnanimity. ‘I’m nothing if not adaptable.’

‘Is that so?’ Albus grins. ‘I’m listening.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they have sex at the end. Maybe they just play Gobstones. Who’s to say. All interpretations are valid here...
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos on this fic, I really appreciate them! I’ve had so much fun writing this and I’m loving these versions of Scorbus, so might add a couple of one-shots to this in the future.


End file.
